One Afternoon By The River
by Thalia Weaver
Summary: Arathorn and Gilraen- my theory on how they met ^.^ AU!!! Not true to the canon; see Appendix A, Section V, Paragraph I.
1. Gilraen

A/N: Arathorn and Gilraen, one of my favorite couples in the book (and Faramir and Eó wyn, and Galadriel and Celeborn, and…) ^.^ I always imagined Gilraen as spirited and kick-ass, and, well…this was spawned in the depths of my strange-odd brain! *grin* And…of course…review!

Disclaimer: Not mine. Not the Mary-Sue writers', either. Hear that whirring in the distance? That's Tolkien turning in his grave. *listens intently* my bad…he's not turning…he's spinning…

One Afternoon By The River

By Thalia Weaver

Chapter One: Gilraen

It was laundry day in the village, and one and all, from the youngest maid to the oldest grandmother, were bringing their soiled clothing to the river to wash. It was my turn to bring our basket to the flowing Anduin that day, and I relished the chance to leave our musty, straw-smelling home. 

My mother was sick, and my father was dead; my sisters and brother had long ago left to be married. It was only I, the spinster Gilraen, that was left to help our mother in her last days. It was my midwife business that kept us alive, and none in the village dared show me disrespect for fear of being left alone when their wives were straining and pained in the agony of childbirth. 

"Be careful, Gilraen," my mother called from her bed, in the soft voice that had secretly begun to grate upon my ears in the last months- my life was becoming too dull and repetitive for my taste. 

"I will, Mother," I called, exasperated. I was one-and-thirty, and yet my mother could not yet accept that I was full-grown.

My resentment vanished as soon as I left our dark cottage, full of the rank smells of my mother's sickness. The day was young and beautiful, the sun shining with a deep golden radiance that filled my bones and warmed me deeply. Even laden with our heavy basket, a spring came into my step- the village was beautiful with the sunlight shining in the thatch of the roofs, giving the illusion that the houses were made of gold. A small smile flitted over my face as I thought of the dirty, dingy interiors of those very houses, filled with the screams of women straining in childbirth, and the golden illusion that they presented now.

After a few more minutes' walk through a small section of woods that bordered our village and separated it from the river, I reached the flowing banks of the Anduin. Hearing the chatter of the other women, I moved farther downstream- having no husband and no suitor, I found myself left out of the conversations, and long experience told me solitude was more peaceful than the company of the village gossips.

The water was clear, the current strong. I kneeled, placing the basket on the ground beside me. Methodically and carefully- we did not have many clothes, and it would not do to lose them to the river- I began sorting and washing the clothes, soaking them carefully in the water and scrubbing them with a bar of the rough lye soap the villagers sold- this particular bar had been given to me as a gift for successfully delivering a set of twins to a formerly childless couple. The memory was a happy one, and it fit the day; the cold water felt wonderful against my skin after weeks of the tepid well water in the village, and the sunlight shining through the green leaves was enough to make anyone forget his or her troubles. I lifted the last item in the basket to the light, and as always sucked in an appreciative breath at the beauty of the cloth. It was a Haradri silk scarf my mother's mother had bought from a traveling merchant, and even after many years it still retained its loveliness. I smiled and began washing it.

And then a low growl came from the trees behind me, guttural and unpleasant. 

"We've had good fortune, Morhen…a pretty woman in a lonely stretch of river…mayhap she needs someone to keep 'er company."

"Mayhap she does, an' mayhap we'll give 'er more than company!"

My blood ran ice as laughter echoed from behind me. I obeyed my first, powerful instinct, leaped to my feet, and began to run. A strong arm caught my waist.

"Now, where are ye goin'? Surely ye won't desert us without a bit o' fun, will ye?"

A large hand slid down my thigh, while another reached up and covered my mouth. I smelled liquor on the breath of my unknown assailant. He was large, I could tell- I was tall for a woman, and yet I barely reached his neck, and his hands were very big.

I was not helpless, however. _No one attacks a Dú nedan this way, even a woman, _I thought grimly, and went limp in his arms. He loosened his grip, surprised, and I dug my elbow into his groin. He grunted and pushed me forward awkwardly, doubling up in pain. I lost my balance and, swinging my arms wildly, I fell into the river, the swift-flowing current carrying me flailing downstream.

I choked and went under. The last thing I saw before darkness took me was my grandmother's scarf, trailing like a blood-colored banner before me…


	2. Arathorn

A/N: …Well. I looked in the Appendix to RotK, and discovered that I had completely screwed up the story. 

Here's Tolkien's version:

"Arador was the grandfather of the King. His son Arathorn sought in marriage Gilraen the Fair, daughter of Dirhael, who was himself a descendant of Aranarth. To this marriage Dirhael was opposed; for Gilraen was young and had not reached the age at which women of the Dunedain were accustomed to marry.

'Moreover,' he said, 'Arathorn is a stern man of full age, and will be chieftain of the Dunedain sooner than men looked for; yet my heart forebodes that he will be short-lived.'

But Ivorwen, his wife, who was also foresighted, answered: 'The more need of haste! The dats are darkening before the storm, and great things are to come. If these two wed now, hope may be born for our people; yet if they delay, it will not come while this age lasts.'"

*scratches head* Well, that's sorta…different. But I like this story! Can I keep it? We'll call it an AU! It'll be our secret, okay?? Pleeeeease??

Disclaimer: Not mine, yadda yadda, etc. etc…

One Afternoon By The River

By Thalia Weaver

Chapter Two: Arathorn

I was tired from long journeying, my legs sore under me and my throat parched. It was a lovely day, and the band of Orcs I had been following had been dispatched by a troop of Ithilien Rangers. And so I found myself on the banks of the Anduin, leaning over and drinking thirstily from the fast-flowing waters.

The day was peaceful enough, though in the distance I could hear the faded chattering of many women. 

Still, the calm of the little, shaded bank I was resting on was hardly disturbed by the muffled laughing, and it was a welcome enough change after weeks of heavy fighting. 

I sighed, and wiped my mouth, ducking my head into the cool water and letting it run over my sweat-soaked hair. My sword poked me sharply in the side, reminding me that this pleasant detour would soon be over.

A glint of red caught my eye. I looked up, and saw a trailing piece of red cloth and, close behind it, a woman floating on the river. She might be still alive, and so I threw off my sword and dagger, racing into the cold water. I struggled against the swift current and brought her to shore- luckily, she was light, and not far from the bank.

As I brought her up onto the mossy side of the river, I got a better look at the woman I had rescued. She looked to be about thirty, and she was beautiful; her hair was long and dark, though it was wet and soggy now. Her face was tired, but lovely in its own way, and I found myself liking her looks immediately.

I felt her wrist- there was a heartbeat still, though weak and thready. Remembering what I had learned from Nerdanyr, the old Ranger who had taught me everything I knew, I leaned over and began to give breath into her mouth. Reflecting that, in any other circumstance, I would have been filled with pleasure at the opportunity to have my mouth on that of a beautiful woman, I smiled in my mind; at that moment her eyes flew open, her arm raised up, and she struck me, hard, upon the head.

"Ai!" I cried, clutching my head. "Strange gratitude you give, woman!"

"Gratitude? For what, then, that you would rape me after pushing me into the river?" She cried, her eyes blazing. She got to her feet.

"What? I fished you out of the river! You would have died!" I replied, angered at the insult to my honor.

"You…you are not the one that attacked me, then?" she answered, hesitant, her anger cooled somewhat.

"You were attacked? By whom?" I asked, stunned. My anger disappeared.

"I know not…I think that one of the names was Morhen."

"Morhen? Oh, no," I groaned, for Morhen was one of the most famous bandits west of the Ered-Lithui. "I know that name…"

"What is yours?" She asked suddenly. "Your name, I mean."

I looked at her sharply, surprised at the question. "Arathorn , son of Arador. And what is yours?" Inside, I wondered at my own foolishness, asking for the name of some river-woman when one of the most evil men in Middle-Earth was nearby; but something made me ask despite.

"Gilraen. Gilraen, daughter of Dirhael and Ivorwen."

The silence of the trees hung about us; the muffled laughter and chatter of the women was silent, and all I could see were Gilraen's eyes.

The moment was broken by the sound of loud voices and tramping feet, not very distant from us.

"We'll find the trollop, and do to her body what we would have to her alive! No one kicks Ethnahor, son of Estranor, in his manhood and lives- or dies- unspoiled!" came a snarling voice. Gilraen paled, and I guessed that this was her attacker- and that she was the trollop he spoke of.

I was torn between anger at the insult to her and admiration of her courage, but the voices were getting closer. I picked up my sword, abandoned on the moss while rescuing Gilraen, and buckled it on.

"Run!" I cried to her.

"You cannot fight them!" She cried. "Listen! There are many men."

I smiled to myself, ruefully. "Then we will both run. But they are upon us!"

We ran.


	3. Morhen

One Afternoon By The River

By Thalia Weaver

Disclaimer: 

It's not mine,

That's not fair,

Life sucks all over everywhere!

A/N: Yay! Three consecutive chapters! Iiiit's a record!

Chapter Three: Morhen

We ran, until my breath came hard and fast. My sword slapped against my leg painfully with every step, and Gilraen was falling behind. The tramping of feet behind us was fainter now.

I winced as the bandits (loudly) discovered our tracks- there had not been time to cover them, and now they would be hot on our trail.

"I know this place," whispered Gilraen, her breath still ragged. "There is a hollow past that creek." She pointed to a small, muddy stream that was flowing eastward. "I will show you."

She grabbed my hand and pulled me past the little river. Once we had waded through it, I stopped her, and placed leaves on my boots and her bare feet so that our tracks would be erased. 

Her dark eyes widened as the tramp of boots came even closer. Hurriedly, she pulled me into a small tree-sheltered cave far from the path we had run down earlier.

There was barely enough room for us both, and I found myself sitting on the ground, Gilraen in my arms. She looked surprised, but not unpleased, by this arrangement.

"It took me years to find this place," she whispered into my ear, "and I have lived here all my life. I used to come here often, long ago."

Again came the familiar feeling of envy that surged up in me whenever someone spoke of their home. The life of a Ranger was a hard one, but the worst part was not having any place to call your own- wandering ever in search of the servants of Sauron, never resting, never stopping for longer than a day in any one place or another. Gilraen's hair smelled of straw and green trees, and I found myself wishing that I was not a Ranger**;** imagining a life with Gilraen filled me with a peculiar pleasure and heat that washed through me.

"It must be a hard life, that of a Ranger," she continued, cutting into my thoughts. "Never having a home, or a place to call your own."

"Aye, it is a hard life," I agreed, "and a dangerous one. Not every villain is as treacherous as Morhen, thank the Valar! What happened, that such a one should attack you? I had not heard that he was in this region."

"It was through no fault of mine! Today is wash day in my village, and I had no wish to speak to the women- for I have no husband, and do not wish to be a part of their petty gossip about the business of wifehood. I was washing my clothes- mine and my mother's- when I heard voices behind me, speaking of their good fortune at finding a woman to- to do foul things to," she said, and blushed to the roots of her dark hair. "They would have taken my honor and then left me to die there, by the side of the river. I-"

"Kicked one of them in the manhood?"

She blushed deeper. "I did. He pushed me into the river, and the next moment there you were-" she stole a glance at me- "about to do the same to me, or so I thought. By the grace of the Valar, I was wrong." 

There was a moment of heavy silence. Then Gilraen's eyes grew wider than ever as the bandits' voices sounded close outside our cave.

"Where are they? The tracks stop here!" came a loud growl, close by us. 

"It matters not about the bitch. But I think a Ranger found her…" The second voice was cold and hard. I could feel Gilraen trembling, and I hesitantly placed a comforting arm around her. That one was Morhen's. I could feel it.

"A _Ranger, _master? Are ye sure?" The first voice again, this time filled with hate. I could not fight them all, but if we were found, I would die trying.

"Of course I am sure. It is not your place to question my orders, Ethnahor- it seems that you have outlived most of your usefulness. You grow cocky, and my patience wears thin. Find the bitch, and have your pleasure with her- bring the Ranger to me. Then you might live to see another day."

Gilraen was shaking harder now within the protective circle of my arm, and I cursed my helplessness. Trying to fight them would surely cause both of our deaths. Yet I was stunned by the depth of my rage at the bandits outside- raging at them, for reducing Gilraen to this frightened state, for attacking her- raging for myself, raging for the fact that we would probably die here and I would never truly fall in love with Gilraen, though I had already begun.

There was the sound of rustling, just outside our cave, and heavy breathing. My heart thumped so loudly I was sure that it would be our undoing, and the bandit outside the cave would find us and we would die. But he did not, and the sound of his breath faded away. I sighed in relief, softly. 

"M-master, they're not here- we couldn't find 'em," came Ethnahor's voice, trembling and submissive.

"You are a coward, Ethnahor," came Morhen's voice back, low, soft, clipped and dangerous. I knew that Morhen was a far more dangerous man than Ethnahor would ever be, for I had run into him once before, and he had killed one of my fellows. "A coward, and a poor servant. I have no use for bad servants. You have failed me, Ethnahor."

There was the sound of a knife thudding into flesh, and a grunt. Ethnahor was dead.

"Let us move on- we will find them soon. They must have followed the stream eastward." The tramping of boots receded, and I let out the breath I did not realize I had been holding in.

Gilraen flew out of the cave, her steps thudding on the ground, and flung herself down, sobbing. I ran to her, and put my arm around her. She huddled into my chest, her tears staining the travel-worn cloth of my cloak.

"He killed him. Morhen killed him. Right in front of us! Oh, Arathorn," she sobbed. Then she seemed to realize what she was doing, and drew back, embarrassed. She drew herself upright and wiped her eyes, and I knew she was of Dunedan blood then. Her bearing was tall and noble, and in her features I could read the strength and purpose of my ancestors. She turned slightly away, and her profile was outlined against the setting sun. There was valor in that face, and my heart panged at the thought of continuing to wander without her.

"We must leave this place. They might come back," I said, and cursed the cowardliness of those words. She turned her face up to me, and under the tears her eyes shone.

"Come with me back to the village," she said. "I wish to show you my home." And then she slipped her hand into mine, calloused from long hard work, but to me it was more beautiful than that of any untried, simple maiden.

"I will."


	4. Thoughts

A/N: Warning: short chapter! This is almost all Gilraen's thoughts. I had originally planned to have the plot advance in this chapter, but Gilraen asserted herself in my mind so loudly that I couldn't ignore her, and this chapter began and ended before I could get a word in edgewise. Very sorry.

Disclaimer: *showing a disturbing level of sarcasm* Yeah, it's mine. All of it. Right down to the last bit character. Tolkien? Who the f**k is Tolkien? 

One Afternoon By The River

By Thalia Weaver

Chapter Four: Thoughts 

The sun was still shining on the villager's roofs when Arathorn and I reached it. The memory of Ethnahor's killing was still very vivid, and I shuddered. It had been long since Orcs had come to our village, and I had never seen anyone killed before.

Women had died in childbirth before, of course, and every year there were a few that perished from sickness in the winter- but that was one thing, and hearing a murder scant feet from me another. 

Arathorn felt my shudder, and gently pressured my hand with his for a moment. His hand was large and strong, and fit mine well; but all of a sudden, I grew ashamed of the calluses and scars on mine. I thought of my mother, and the long lessons she had sought to give me in the arts of womanhood. Now I wished I had not rebelled quite so strongly against them, for what hope had I to use the womanly arts and make him fall in love with me?

My voice was no sweeter than that of a frog's; I could not sew; all I knew was how to deliver a screaming, fighting baby into the world, and how to use a bow and arrow well. How could the spinster Gilraen, the unladylike old midwife, compete with some lovely maiden that would capture his heart? For that matter, how did I know that Arathorn was unmarried? It was not unusual for Rangers to rescue women; was I a foolish girl, then, to think that we could be more? I felt sick at the thought of Arathorn embracing, kissing, loving another.

I glanced up at him-he was taller than me- just as his eyes met mine. My heart beat faster.

__

Arathorn, I thought, my eyes filling with tears that came unbidden. Horrified, I blinked them away. What was I doing, crying like one of the babies I had delivered? 

"Gilraen? Wh-what's the matter?" Arathorn asked, sounding bewildered and hesitant, as though unsure how to deal with a woman's tears.

I tried to speak, but the words would not come. A rock seemed to have settled itself in my throat. More tears slid down my face, and I closed my eyes.

Images flashed through my head- my father dying, the first baby I had delivered stillborn, white and perfect in every manner except for its lack of breath, the first mother that had died in childbirth while I looked on, helpless, Ethnahor sliding his hand down my thigh- and then, Arathorn with his lips on mine, his eyes as he told me to run, his chest against my back in the tiny cave, me crying in his arms like a child. I opened my eyes.

"Arathorn…" I said softly, and looked up into his face. There was a look of great tenderness there, and in his eyes something that stirred my heart. I had seen that same look before, from husbands standing by bedsides or sitting on piles of dirty straw, watching their wives as they writhed on childbed. Never had I thought that someone would ever look at me that way- not I, the spinster Gilraen, the one destined to live alone and take care of her agéd mother until she died. 

"Come with me," I told him, the tears gone. "I have something to show you." 

He looked mystified still; but now there was joy in his face. I smiled, and pulled him towards the gold-roofed town.


	5. Home

A/N: I took a few liberties in this chapter; I really have no idea what a typical Dunedan's childhood would be like, so I fudged-and-fumbled a bit…otay? Don't get mad- get Glad!

My Muse is simply piling on the ideas tonight! Two chapters in one day? It's a record!!

Disclaimer: Nope, not mine today. Yesterday it was, and it will be tomorrow, though!

One Afternoon By The River

By Thalia Weaver

Chapter Five: Home

I did not know much about women, except for dim memories of my mother, and the sort of loose woman that exhibits her body for sport among the men that would have her. There were not many such men in my Ranger camp, and so I could not judge the cause of this sudden outburst of tears. All I knew was that when she cried, as she was doing now, I wanted to comfort her, and stop her from crying.

I had never felt so about any woman before. I had left my mother's village at twelve, to begin training as a Ranger, and had never had the chance to fall in love.

__

Perhaps this is just because I never knew any other, I thought. Then she lifted her gaze to me, and my doubt was dispelled. There was something in her eyes that stirred my heart and filled me with the strangest gladness…

"Arathorn…" she said softly, and it seemed as though I had never heard my name spoken before until it came from her lips.

I remembered seeing that look once before. My mother had raised me almost alone, for my father was not often home; he first came back when I was a child of five. I still remembered the look on her face as he entered the door- it was the same one that Gilraen wore now. 

But I was Arathorn, son of Arador, Heir to the Chieftain of The Dunedain, the Faithful- the wandering warriors of Gondor. I would never settle, I would never be able to dwell in just one place- for I was a Ranger. I could not give that up, not even for Gilraen. Not even for the woman I loved. 

Not even for the woman I loved.

"Come," she said, her voice sparkling with some inner joy I could not fathom. "I wish to show you something."

__

Women, I surmised, _must be strange creatures indeed- was she not crying one moment ago? _

Gilraen pulled me after her, smiling over her shoulder. This was one strange creature I would observe in her own habitat. 

We walked swiftly through the narrow streets. Gilraen was greeted with respect, and I was barely noticed- Rangers came freely through most towns in Gondor, even villages as small as this one.

At last we stopped, before a small, dingy hut at the edge of the village. Gilraen looked at it with a slight expression of distaste, then beckoned me to go inside. 

"This is my home, Arathorn," she told me apologetically.

The interior was dark, and smelled of straw and sweat. I looked around- there was a large pot on the hearth, a dirty rug on the floor, and a large section of exquisite needlework on a dingy chair in the corner. I picked it up.

"Gilraen? Who is that?" came a soft voice. Gilraen let loose an exasperated sigh, and walked to a dark curtain I had not seen in the shadowed hut. She drew it aside. There was a dirty bed on which lay an old woman, whose looks gave the impression that she had once been very beautiful- indeed, more beautiful than Gilraen. Her voice held suggestion of good breeding, and though her body was covered with the bedclothes, her face was wasted by long illness.

"Mother, you were supposed to be asleep," she said tenderly, her voice soft and gentle as she grasped her mother's hand. 

"I am weary of always sleeping, Gilraen," said Gilraen's mother. "Sleeping and needlework are the only things I ever do. I wish to see the sun again! It has been overlong that I lay here."

Gilraen glanced at me apologetically. Her mother followed her gaze and fixed on me.

"Gilraen! Is this your suitor? Have you no courtesy?" With obvious effort, she raised herself and looked at me intently. Her gaze was sharper than that of a hawk's, and I sensed much strength in her bearing. "What is your name, young man?"

"I am Arathorn, son of Arador-"

"Arador? I knew Arador, once, when I was younger…he was one of my suitors once, you know. He was very handsome in his time, much as you are now. If you are half the man your father was, I would consent for you to marry my daughter."

I blushed, thinking of what it would be like to marry Gilraen. Suddenly, as had happened only a few times before, I was struck with a flash of vision.

__

Gilraen was smiling up at me happily, holding a bundle of blankets. "Our first, Arathorn," she said softly, her hair damp and mussed. "What shall we name him?"

"Aragorn," I said. I had decided already to name him after my father's father, for Aragorn I had been a man of valor and courage.

"You shall be called Estel while you are here," said Elrond to the small, serious-faced boy standing before him. "Welcome to my home."

"Strider is too poor a name, son of Arathorn," came the voice of a tall, blond Rider of Rohan. "Wingfoot I name you."

A tall man, noble in bearing, lifted a shining sword, standing atop a battlement as the dawn rose- a very vision of past Kings…

I awoke with Gilraen leaning over me, holding a wet cloth to my forehead. Her hair brushed my temple as she leaned over again, then saw my open eyes.

"Arathorn? Are you all right?"

I looked into her eyes for so long that she blushed and drew back as I sat up. A flood of happiness poured over me- never, in the history of the Dunedain, had a vision told less than the truth, and that meant that I would marry Gilraen one day. It did not matter when. I smiled, truly joyous as I had not been in many long years.

"I have never felt better," I said truthfully.


	6. Knowledge

Chapter Six: Knowledge  
  
A/N: This chapter may or may not be excessively sappy. Let me know if the sugar in here is diabetes-inducing.  
  
Arathorn appeared to have recovered from his swoon; he was, for reasons unknown to me, staring into my eyes. His gaze was full of a strange mingled joy and wonderment, and as the moment lengthened, I could feel myself flush.   
  
"Arathorn? Are you- all right?" I asked, wrenching my gaze from his and fiddling with a loose thread in my sleeve. Why was I so very awkward with this man? I released my breath in an unladylike snort, indignant at the realization that I as falling- nay, had fallen- in love with a relative stranger I had met but a few hours ago.   
  
"I have never been better," he answered, his voice deep. Many of the village men had tired to romance me, over the years- but never once had my heart fluttered with in me, nor had my voice failed, nor had my knees trembled, as they did when Arathorn spoke. Long had I scorned the blushing maidens of the village when they proclaimed their love for this man or that man mere moments after meeting the object of their affections. I had seen t he results of such hasty decisions, as the same women who had smiled and coquetted and simpered thrashed and screamed on childbed, cursing their husbands and themselves, ruing their own foolishness and its consequence.  
  
"My dear Gilraen," my mother said suddenly, jolting me out of my reverie. "You have erred in bringing me your suitor, for think you that I will ignore a man so handsome in my home for long, though he is already spoken for? It would be ill indeed for you, were your beloved to fall into the clutches of an evil old woman such as myself…"   
  
Arathorn blushed, and I rolled my eyes at my mother's ribald humor. She coughed, a spasm that racked her whole body. "Go now, and leave an old woman to her rest."  
  
I looked at her quizzically, knowing that she wanted no such thing. It was difficult enough to force her to rest, even when she needed it desperately between bouts of the long illness that had haunted her so long.  
  
She smiled at me, and winked, though her eyes were sad. With an imperious gesture, she banished Arathorn.   
  
"Please, sir, be kind enough to allow an old woman to trade a few words with her daughter alone for a moment. I will not keep her long."   
  
Arathorn stood obediently, bowed courteously to my mother and I, and exited. The moment he was out the door, I turned to my mother.  
  
"Mother, I know that you do not truly wish to rest! Unless there has been a dire change in your temperament since last we spoke, some plot or trickery must be afoot."  
  
"No plot and no trickery is afoot, my Gilraen.," she answered. "I wish only to speak with you, for there is much I would say that has been too long delayed."  
  
I sighed. "Will you now try to amend for the past? That wound is bound and closed, and the scars beyond repair or regret."  
  
My mother sighed, and took my hand in both of hers, holding it gently, as though it were a fragile bird whose bones she was afraid of breaking, but must keep grasp of lest it flutter away.  
  
"You are very beautiful, Gilraen. Did you know that on your next birthday, you will be the same age I was when I married your father?"  
  
I looked up in mild surprise. "I knew not that you were as old as I when you were married."  
  
She smiled. "You are not the only woman who waited long years before finding her true love. Ah yes, I found him when I was two-and-thirty. He, too, was a wandering Ranger. His name was Arador, son of Aragonui."  
  
I started in shock. "Arador? But- my father-"  
  
"Arador did not return my affections, though he did not discourage my intentions as swiftly as he might have. I was very beautiful then, and he is only human. But when he told me that he did not love me, it- it broke my heart. I turned away from him, and when Dirhael son of Lorend confessed to me his own love, I wedded him out of some misguided spite."  
  
"You did not love my father, then?"  
  
"He was a fine man, and tried to make me happy as best he could. But no man could ever take the place of Arador; I fear that a certain weakness for the men of that family was passed down to you, my daughter…"  
  
"The daughter you never wanted."  
  
My mother sighed. "Understand, my Gilraen, that I did not love your father, nor did I wish for a child. I am sorry I did not prove as good of a mother as I wish I had been now."  
  
At her words, old bitterness that I thought had been long buried rushed up to my tongue.  
  
"'As good of a mother'? You gave me to a midwife long before the proper age of apprenticeship rather than deign to raise me yourself!"  
  
There was a long silence after this statement, in which I realized that I was crying, the tears spilling silently from my eyes and spilling down my face.   
  
"I know I am not worthy of a daughter so beautiful," my mother said softly, "and I know that I lost my chance of considering myself truly your mother. I ask only one thing: that you forgive me."  
  
I turned away, wiping my eyes. "You bring back memories that would be better buried. You were so very beautiful back then, and I wanted you to love me more than I have ever wanted anything in my life. But you never even looked back."   
  
"Gilraen, I am dying. I have seen my death; it is a gift granted to the Dunedain, that we may foresee our manner and time of dying. I have only a few months at most. I wanted you to forgive me, before I die."  
  
I turned back to her, anger boiling within me. "Do you truly believe that with one word you can repair all those years of abandonment?"  
  
"No. They can never be truly repaired. But- I- I know that I erred. Each time I see you, I see also the chance I lost; that no part of me is reflected in you, my only daughter. I made the greatest mistake of my life the day I gave you away. I cannot yet forgive myself; what right have I to ask you for absolution?" She turned away, spilling her own tears.  
  
"No, I- I am sorry, mother." I grasped her shoulder and turned her gently, to face me. "I mourned the loss of a mother long ago. I realize now that I gave you up too soon."  
  
"For many years, I ignored you. And now, shackled by my illness, I am nothing but a burden upon you!"  
  
"What is a midwife but a healer? I would be a poor one indeed if I could not provide such services as I am equipped to give you." On impulse, I drew her close and hugged her; it was the first embrace between us that I could remember for a long time. She was so frail, so weak, so thin! If I had wished, I could have snapped her backbone with my bare hands.   
  
"I love you, Gilraen." Her voice was thick with emotion.  
  
"I love you too, mother."   
  
"Now go," she whispered, gesturing towards the door. "Your life awaits you."   
  
Wiping away the tears that still streamed down my face, I obeyed. Arathorn took my arm, and slowly we began to walk away. I turned once, to look again at the house that I had lived in for so many years. My mother stood in the doorway, her white hair whipping about her in the wind. With tears glistening in her eyes, she raised one hand in a silent farewell.   



End file.
